Firecrackers
by yourejustlikeheaven
Summary: Pete participates in some late night shenanigans with his friends. (Oneshot)


**Here's a oneshot I wrote at 3AM. I like to think that even the goth kids have a little fun sometimes. It's just illegal fun that pisses people off. Leave a review if you like it or if you'd like to give some constructive criticism. Thanks for reading!**

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His heart was beating so fast, he thought he might have a heart attack and die. Which wouldn't be so bad in any other circumstance, but kicking the bucket on a stranger's lawn would probably be a little embarrassing.

"Would you stop freaking out? Look at the driveway, man. No cars. No one's home. Besides, whoever lives there is probably a major conformist. Fuck their mailbox." Michael muttered from beside him, essentially proving that he could read minds. They were crouching behind a very conveniently placed bush, their noses just barely peeking over the poorly-trimmed greenery. Across the street, Henrietta was standing in front of the open mailbox and mumbling a string of frustrated curses at her failing lighter. Pete rolled his eyes at Michael's accusation as if it were the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard.

"I'm not freaking out, dick. It's just...what if one of those douchebag joggers comes down the street or something? Won't it fuck them up?" He was probably a huge wuss for worrying about something like that. Especially considering that it was well passed midnight and no one in their right mind would be running around this late (hence why the goths were out and about).

"They're firecrackers, not grenades. You can light one in your _hand,_ for fuck's sake. Firkle does it all the time. So stop bitching." Yeah, well, Firkle managed to do a lot of dangerous, fucked up shit without getting seriously injured, so that wasn't very assuring. But Michael lightly elbowed Pete's arm and skewered him with his stern Dad Look, so he shut his mouth.

"Here she comes." Firkle whispered from Pete's other side, adrenaline brightening his usually bitter features. Indeed, Henrietta was half-jogging toward them, jiggling and yelping 'Shit shit shit shit' over and over again in a panicky fashion all the way. Just as she reached Firkle's side and ducked for cover, the fuse finished burning.

She had shut the mailbox before rushing over, but it flew right back open when the fireworks went off. The bright flashes hurt his eyes and the continuous, head-splitting noise that exploded in the little box made him think of a nuclear powered popcorn machine. It was exhilarating, even with his hands squishing his ears the way they were. Just when he thought it might never end, it stopped. It didn't blow up or anything like that. But he could see the large number of dents left in the metal and there was grayish-white smoke filtering out of it's opening. It was pretty cool. At least, it was until the front door across the street swung open.

No one's home, his ass.

"Oh, shit!" Michael hissed, already on his feet. As the elderly man (Too elderly to drive, evidently) pulled a very large, very deadly looking shotgun into view, Pete decided that living in a small hick town really fucking sucked. Then he ran like hell. By the time the goth kids slowed to a stop, they were in the Village Inn parking lot nearly halfway across town and were inches away from coughing fits.

Pete fell to his knees. It felt like someone had twisted his lungs into a morbid balloon animal and it was about to pop. He looked at Michael, who had collapsed next to him and was now laying on his back and huffing uncontrollably. Henrietta was bent over, hands on her upper thighs with a wildly flushed face. Firkle had a hand on her shoulder to support himself. To Pete's complete and utter disbelief, the smallest of the goths took the cigarette tucked behind his ear-how had it not fallen?!-and placed it between his black lips. As if sprinting from shotgun-wielding bumpkins was totally normal.

"That was fucking intense, you guys." Firkle said after lighting up. Henrietta snorted in response. Then she giggled. And suddenly she was cackling as if that was the funniest damn thing she'd ever heard in her life.

"You're unbelievable." Michael said through a small, breathy laugh, swiping at his forehead with the back of his hand. They were idiots, Pete thought. But as the terror and the excitement and the pure adrenaline started to wear off, an odd sort of incredible giddiness bubbled in his chest. It wasn't very goth of him, but he couldn't quite keep it from rising up into his throat and escaping his lips in a bout of loud, obnoxious laughter.

It was ridiculous and idiotic and probably conformist to boot. But it was almost one in the morning, no one was around, and he couldn't remember the last time he had genuinely laughed at something. So, just this once, Pete allowed himself to laugh like an absolute moron with his friends. He didn't feel too bad about it. After all, there would be plenty of time for death and despair tomorrow.


End file.
